Page 54 of Nocturne
HUNTER
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“Almost done.” Holt Vance, owner of Grave Ink studio and Iron Requiem member, says with a rough voice as he drags the needle across my back. He’s done all my tattoos, and only tattoos of members of Iron Requiem, or regular people who don’t belong to any gang.
“This one’s takin’ forever, but I trust you, Holt.” I let it out, trying to swallow the moan the pain keeps dragging out, even though I’m used to the needle burning my skin.
The steady buzz of the machine mixes with the sharp smell of ink and sweat, the cold studio air clashing with the fire burning inside me—on my skin, in my soul. Every stroke is a cut, every line a confession I can’t say out loud.
I’m lying on the table, cold leather against my back, but the heat of the iron digging in burns harder than any scar I’ve ever hidden. The smell of ink, alcohol, and metal rules the air. The mirrors in front of me are all scribbled with filthy words, dripping black ink like they’re bleeding secrets.
The studio feels more like an exhibit of rage and art than a place to mark skin. There’s a huge sculpture in the corner—a male body carved in marble, covered in tattoos of dragons, flowers, skulls, and old desires. A fucked-up contrast between purity and sin—just like me, just like him.
My jaw clenches when I think about that. The name I don’t want to think about. Each needle jab pulses in time with my pounding head. I remember Damon, his voice in mine, his cock deep inside me, both of us coming together—relieved and full of pleasure. Fuck.
Holt clicks off the machine with a sharp snap. “Get up, brother.” His voice carries weight, like every word holds a promise.
The mirror in front of me shows everything—no shadow of a secret. The tattoo on my back pulses like an open wound—alive, fresh, throbbing. The fallen angel seems to rise from my skin, from these broad shoulders carrying more than muscle: guilt, rage, desire. The dark wings spread out like they want to rip me apart from the inside out. It’s not at peace. It doesn’t pray or plead. It’s fall and fight. That’s exactly how I feel every time I think of him. Damon.
It’s a blunt metaphor—but a necessary one. The split between heaven and hell, light and shadow, obedience and chaos. I was raised to follow orders, to complete missions. All that shattered the second his eyes locked with mine. Damon doesn’t need weapons to destroy me. One touch, one look, and I sink. And the worst? I let him.
The tattoo is my silent confession. A scream no one hears. It stands for rebellion... but also surrender. Because with him, there’s no middle ground. I’m the soldier who deserted, the enemy who fell in love. Every line bleeds what I never could say.
I asked the tattoo artist to carve my sentence.Black wings, drawn with sick precision, show what I am inside: cracked, marked, beyond repair. The cloth wrapped tight around the body, the lowered gaze, the stance of war, everything about it is true. I’m no hero. Never was. I grew up in chaos, shaped by violence, and now I carry on my back the memory of how lost I got. And even more... how much I wanted to lose myself in him.
This angel didn’t fall by choice. But stayed where he fell. Because there, he found something—or someone. Damon. My ruin, my full stop.
This obsession—dirty, burning, twisted—has no name. But now it has form. It’s marked on me, forever. He’ll never know this tattoo is about him. About how he broke me. How he rebuilt me in silence. But every time I look in the mirror, I’ll remember.
And I’ll burn again.
CHAPTER 13
DAMON
The sky is too blue for this place. A blue that cuts, that hurts. Too blue for this pain I carry buried in my chest, sinking like an invisible weight. I stand there, still, my body heavy, almost sinking on my heels, as if the ground is the only place that still holds me. The sun escapes through thick leaves, tearing the dense shade, spreading crooked patches of light on the ground, among worn, forgotten, silent tombstones. Everything around seems alive, breathing, even smiling. Almost too beautiful. Almost cruel. As if the world were wrong. But I don’t smile. I can’t. Not today, not ever.
My eyes fix on the cold, hard, relentless stone. Noah Reed. My brother. My best friend. The name weighs like a punch in the stomach, a sharp blade that does not heal. The pain hits dry, brutal, opening wounds that do not want to close. Guilt wraps around my ribs, steals the air I try to draw, breathes with me — constant, suffocating. Even so, I came back. I always come back here. I know it doesn’t help at all. But absence weighs more than everything, and far from him, the emptiness screams louder.
I look at the sky, this clean, cold blue, without a cloud to soften it. The wind comes slowly, scratches my skin, messes up my hair, touches my face with a cold that drags everything inside — a cruel invitation to feel more.Everything here seems peaceful, even beautiful, a facade of silence. But inside me, a war explodes silently. Explodes in bleeding pieces.
And then he appears in my mind. Hunter.
I close my eyes, my jaw clenched in a dull pain that almost paralyzes me. He shouldn’t be here, inside my head, not in this macabre sanctuary next to Noah. But he is. Always is.
The anger rises first, like fire burning on the skin, fast, violent, burning the tips of my nerves. Then everything collapses: guilt, resentment, desire, confusion — a chaos that consumes me, that tears me apart inside, all mixed, cruelly tangled.
I hate him. I swear I do. But I can’t avoid the weight of the look he gave that night — a look that saw every broken piece I try to hide, every shadow, every scar. Like he wanted to carry this whole pain with me, and not leave me alone. I want to punch him, rip out everything suffocating me. I want to pull him close, steal a kiss so strong it erases the world. I want to hate, love, destroy, save. All at the same time.
I take a deep breath, swallow this confusion that insists on growing, try to drown these sharp feelings that tear my throat. But it’s no use. The wind keeps blowing, cold and indifferent. The sun insists on breaking through the trees, illuminating this place that will never stop reminding me: you’re still alive. And living like this — without Noah, with Hunter tormenting my mind — is a slow cut, a destruction that consumes me a little more every fucking day.
I stand there. Standing. Lost. Not knowing what to do with what’s left of me.
That’s when I see it.
A butterfly. Blue. Out of nowhere.
It lands on Noah’s tombstone, inches from me, like the whole damn world froze just for it to pass. Its wings tremble like a breath. It shouldn’t be here—not in this place, not at this time.
